


Tools of Torture

by tab0o



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU Season 10, Archangel Castiel, Character Deaths, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, King of Hell Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tab0o/pseuds/tab0o
Summary: "Sam knew the regime change was bound to happen, but he never expected it would happen so soon."In which Sam and Cas have to come to terms with a demonic Dean, newly minted king of hell, and an apocalyptic-like threat lurks just around the corner. And, of course, nothing is as it seems.





	1. Negotiations Are Easier With Guns

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first fic, so don;t judge too hard. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy this slightly dark story (which happens to not have a beta, so let me know if you're interested).

Sam knew the regime change was bound to happen, but he never expected it would happen so soon.

It was just a thought one day, that dawned on him while he was scrolling through some security footage for his brother. The demonized version, anyways. But, he wasn’t just a normal bottom feeder demon that they came across every other day, he was a knight of hell, of all things. Dean had always been strong, but now he was stronger than almost everyone. He was stronger than Sam, any demon, monster, and even stronger than the king of hell himself. If he wanted to, Dean could take over pretty much anything his demon heart desired. Besides heaven, that is. An archangel was, technically, equal in power to a knight of hell. The heavenly counterpart, if you will, and ever since Castiel had been promoted and taken power in heaven, he had been searching for Dean. His brother wasn’t stupid enough to try and take of Cas and heaven, not that he wanted to. It was too… clean for Dean’s liking, even normal Dean. So, Sam thought Dean might go after hell, and he could if he put his mind to it. But then Sam had brushed it off and went back to looking, figuring he’d reach his brother first.

Then he started hearing whispers. Different than the occasional why-the-hell-is-your-brother-hanging-out-with-Crowley call he got from a hunter (he always gave them some fake explanation about trying to play the king of hell, and they just muttered something about crazy Winchesters and wishing them good luck. Sam always got a location out of them, discreetly, before they hung up but it never got him closer). The whispers were that the older Winchester was full-out hunting the king of hell, and that there was something… different about him. The whispers spoke of powers, a weird blade, and how Dean once killed a demon with a simple snap of his fingers.

Sam had called Cas instantly and demanded answers. The angel had been just as concerned, saying that Dean had been spotted multiple times by some lower level angels, but the only thing he was doing was hunting down Crowley and killing the occasional person who pissed him off.

Sam began to hate the thing that his brother had become, and he looked with even more desperation.

It had been months when he heard the news. The king of hell, dead, the vessel’s body left lying in the middle of Times Square, of all places, a brutal stab wound through the chest. Sam supposed it was a good place to leave a body if you wanted to send a message, but the one thing that had Sam confused was the lack of panic in hell. He assumed there would be a scramble for power, but there was nothing. Then Sam’s thought occurred to him again. Before he could do anything, though, Cas had appeared next to him, trench coat swishing.

Sam hadn’t seen the angel in person for months, running heaven was a full job, so when Sam was startled half to death by the angel, he knew it was serious.

“Crowley’s dead.” Cas had intoned.

Sam had nodded. “I know.”

Sam had clenched his jaw and waited for the next words.

“Dean took his place."

There was a shift that came with the regime change. Demons were more… behaved, and Sam knew why. Hunters had speculated, and Sam had even been asked a few times, but he never answered and the demons didn’t either. They just shut their mouth and said “You don’t betray the king.”

After he had killed the latest demon he captured, Sam had called Castiel up and begged him to go after Dean. After all, an archangel and a knight of hell were equals, but Cas just said that they couldn’t get to him, and even if they did, Cas wasn’t sure he could beat Dean. It would be a straight fight, and there was no guarantee. They needed a plan, but Sam didn’t have one.

Soon enough, the word got out. It only took one demon, a single, bottom feeder demon to open his mouth, and the word was out. A hunter named Andrea got the whole story out of a demon who Crowley had deemed his “soundboard”, back when he was still alive. The demon knew everything, all of Crowley’s problems, and one of his biggest ones was Dean Winchester. So the demon spilled everything. The mark, Abbadon, Cain, Dean turning into a knight of hell, the defeat of Crowley, and the regime change downstairs. Not even an hour after the demon spilled Sam was getting calls from every hunter he had ever encountered, some angry, some concerned, some just curious.

Sam had his response down pat after 2 hours of calls. Eventually he just answered and told the person to ask someone else before hanging up.

It wasn’t until 2 months later that the situation was stable enough in heaven for Cas to come down and help. They spent hours trying to find a way to get to Dean, but then settled on a stupid, dumb plan: If they couldn’t find Dean, maybe they could piss him off enough to come to them. So they called every hunter they knew and asked for help. Told them to capture any crossroad and scout demon they could and bring them to an abandoned warehouse that Sam and Cas set up. When the hunters asked why, Sam just said they wanted to take down the king of hell, because any regular demon taking over the joint was better than Dean.

Most of the hunters came through, only under the condition that they could stay to see the confrontation, find out how it turned out (also, if he was being honest, some serious bribery was involved as well). Sam just said that none of them, even himself, but Cas were safe, and that they were all going to be back behind the captured demons while Cas hashed it out with Dean. Sam explained to all of them, when a huge amount of demons had been captured and the group of hunters that stayed grew to about 20, that if they couldn’t manage to trap Dean and fix him or kill him (because Dean had been getting better with his powers, or so Sam heard, and Cas was almost positive he couldn’t take Dean down, even now that he was an archangel), that they were going to make a deal with him and try and negotiate. About 5 hunters left after that, but the remaining ones understood, and were for the plan (over the last months crossroad demons had stayed the same, but scout demons had been purposefully hunting and seeking out angels and hunters, so making a deal would be best for everyone).

When they had their impressive grouping of demons (When Sam counted them up there were 23), and all 15 hunters, including Sam, were in the warehouse behind the group of tied up demons, Cas did a summoning ritual for Dean. They figured, if they had enough demons it would catch Dean's attention, because the last summoning ritual they did was just ignored by the knight of hell.

They had lined up a large devil’s trap before hand on the floor, hopeful that it might catch Dean off guard (after all, having 20 plus of your minions tied up and the one guy who could kill you in a warehouse together was probably a little distracting), and then gotten one on the ceiling as a backup. Cas set up a table on the edge of the warehouse and, when everyone was ready (armed with shotguns, not that it would do any good if they really needed to use them) started the spell.

When he dropped the match in to finish it, muttering incantations, there was a moment of hesitation before Castiel completed it. He tensed, and Sam could have sworn he saw the angel’s hand shake before the moment was gone and the spell roared to life. Sam knew that Dean and Cas were close, hell, they were best friends, brothers in every sense of the word, and this had to be hard for Cas. It was just as hard for Sam, so hard, maybe even more so, and there were days that he wanted to just scream and cry, to give up, but Cas was the one who may have to kill Dean. Castiel was the one who would have to kill his best friend.

Still, even though he didn't carry the burden that Cas did, it was still his brother and Sam still loved him. He didn’t want Dean to die, no matter what he had done, and he felt the same hesitation Cas did.

The flames were strong, and for a brief moment they illuminated Cas and it looked as if he was glowing. But only for a moment, soon enough Cas had stepped away and faced the devil’s trap, the demons and hunters behind him.

There was a moment of tense silence, and it seemed even Cas was holding his breath, and then the fire flashed out and the lights seemed to dim. A figure stepped forward into the light, a figure Sam would know anywhere.

Dean looked different, but still eerily the same. He wore a dark black t-shirt with a solid black flannel shirt over it, with deep, navy blue wash jeans and his normal black boots to match. His hair was messier than he usually kept it, and somehow it made him seem more dangerous. His eyes were cold, and a smirk graced his features. Suddenly, Sam remembered the trap and glanced at the king of hell’s feet, muttering a curse as he went. Dean stood tauntingly close to the circle of red, his toes almost touching it. He glanced down, having the audacity to seem surprised, before he flicked a finger slightly. The flood cracked open in a straight line, drawing a barrier in between him and Cas, the trap broken. Dean looked ready to take a step forward and Sam held a breath in hope, but then he paused, titled his head, and glanced up at the ceiling. Sam and the hunters around him all spit out curses as Dean broke that one as well with a flick of his hand. He stepped pointedly into the broken devil’s trap before locking eyes with Sam behind the group of tied demons.

“Aw, Sammy. Thought you could trick me, didn’t you?” He smirked. “How cute.”

Sam clenched his jaw as the other hunters glanced at him in sympathy. He didn’t want it, and glanced pointedly away.

Dean took another step closer to Cas, who had drawn himself up, radiating power. Dean smirked at him.

“You called, Castiel?”

And suddenly Dean’s smirk looked even more dangerous and he drew himself up to match Cas. Sam could practically see the power that the knight of hell possessed, and it seemed that the other hunters could sense it too, a few taking a half step or two back or readying their shotguns. Dean payed them no attention.

Cas nodded slowly. “I did.”

They continued to stare at each other, their glares increasing in intensity. The tension crackled off of them before, surprisingly, Dean broke the stare, sending an appraising eye over the captured demons.

“So, you caught a few bottom feeders.” He said. “Proud of yourselves?”

“We figured you might want them back.” Cas responded lowly. “We’re here to trade.”

“You mean after you tried to kill me.”

Cas said nothing, and Dean laughed. It was cold, harsh, nothing like the normal Dean. “Oh, no. I’ve got it all wrong, don’t I. You didn’t want to kill me, you wanted to cure me.” he tsked. “Cas, Cas. You should know I’m not gonna let that happen.”

“I’m aware.” Cas said. “Which is why we are now here to strike a deal.”

Dean’s eyes lit up with a cold humor. “A deal with the devil, huh?”

Cas said nothing, and Dean continued. 

“Alright, I’ll bite. Name your terms.”

“We give you your demons back. You stop seeking out and killing hunters.”

Dean nodded contemplatively. “Fair enough. Anything else, your majesty?” His tone was mocking, and Sam ground his teeth together.

“You do not kill my angels.”

“Then you don’t kill my demons.”

Suddenly the thin air of false amiability was gone. The two powers of heaven and hell glared at each other, and Sam realized how nuclear this situation truly was.

“Don’t underestimate me, Cas.” Dean said, taking another step forward. “I know you’ve been searching for a few of my higher levels, and you’ve even managed to kill a few. You stop hunting them, I stop hunting angels.” He smirked darkly. “A fair trade if I ever heard one.”

Cas took a small step forward, but the way his muscles tensed, Sam suddenly knew he was going to try something risky. And that was Cas, always risky, but in this case Sam wasn’t sure if they could afford it.

“You almost seem like you care about them.” Castiel titled his head forward slightly as he said it, and Dean’s eyes brightened dangerously.

“Trust me, feathers, I don’t. I hate the bastards.”

“Then why do you keep them?"

He shrugged. “They’re useful.”

Castiel’s stance became a bit less threatening, and he took a breath. “I cannot guarantee that my angel’s will not attack if they are approached by a demon.”

“Same here, assbutt.” Dean's smirk came back as he saw Cas stiffen at the reminder of times not touched by the taint of the mark, not touched by power.

“I will agree to a compromise.” Cas said. “I will not seek out your demons if you do not hunt my angels.”

Dean nodded stiffly, and Cas continued.

“In addition, no soul that deserves to be in heaven can be taken to hell.” The threatening stance was back. “I will not stand for that.”

“Oh, but don’t you think that won't go both ways. A soul checks into hell, it doesn’t get to check out on the angel express.”

Sam was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing ever went this well. Ever. But it was looking up. Still, Sam felt the urge to run forward and yell, scream, and fight his way through the black smoke to his brother. He knew Dean was still in there, the real Dean, the one who had raised him, who protected him, who died for him. The one he would do anything for.

A tap on his shoulder revealed a hunter, Jack, staring slightly nervously at the pair in front of them.

“Didn’t get a chance to ask this before.” He whispered. “Why does your brother care so much about a bunch of low level demons? Doesn’t hell just have a bucket full of these bastards?”

Sam nodded. “They do.” He responded just as softly. “I’m guessing the only reason he’s not gone is that he probably just wants the angels to stop hunting the upper level demons.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Right.” Sam thought about it for a second. “If I had to hazard a guess? Most likely he wants to have ‘em so he can torture them for getting captured.”

The demon directly in front of Sam and Jack began to struggle against his bonds.

“No, you can’t let him have us. Let us go, come on. It’s only fair.” The demon pleaded, his voice rising. “Just let us go."

“Shut up before I make you.” Sam hissed, but the damage was done, they had drawn Dean and Cas’s attention.

“Allow me to help out, Sammy.” Dean called across the warehouse.

Dean snapped his fingers and the demon slumped, the sound echoing throughout the warehouse. Sam didn’t even have to check to know he was dead. The other demons exchanged looks, as did the hunters.

Sam stared, speechless, and Dean smirked. “What, no thank you?”

Sam didn’t say anything, and Dean chuckled, shaking his head. Sam couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t. This was his big brother, but… it wasn’t. The cold glitter of his eyes wan’t Dean, the cocky smirk that normally screamed Winchester simply wasn’t right. It was off, everything was, and San wasn’t sure what to say, or how he was supposed to react. So he just stared, Dean staring back, until Cas spoke up again.

“So do we have a deal?”

Dean stared for a moment longer at Sam, his smile curling wider before he snapped his gaze to Cas.

“I believe we do.” He took a step forward until he was mere inches from Cas, his gaze burning strong into the angel's. “See you around, Cas.”

And then he was gone, along with all the demons. Sam found himself surrounded by hunters all glancing around in surprise and the bursting into a cacophony of discussion. Sam just felt numb.


	2. Lost and Found Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next meet-up with Dean doesn't go as well as the first one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sit back, relax, and enjoy the continuation of this slightly dark story (which happens to not have a beta, so let me know if you're interested).

It was two weeks until they saw him again and it wasn’t a coincidence, of that Sam was sure. The motel room was cold, and Sam could see his breath, clouding and whispering away from him, and Sam was irrevocably reminded of black, writhing out, away, from borrowed skin. He shuddered, shouldered his coat and opened the door, snatching the key off the table and slipping it in his pocket. He took slow, sturdy steps towards the main desk, steadily ignoring the fog of his breath around him, but inevitably failing. Sam vaguely wondered if Dean had possessed anyone else, other then his own meat suit. He dismissed the thought with a huff, a larger white cloud billowing in front of him as he neared the small front desk, which was really just a booth, like at a movie theatre. Dean liked his body, he was used to it, so why switch things up? Dean, despite his propensity for impulsive actions, was a creature of habit. He hated change just as much of anyone. He wanted interesting, exciting, but no shifts in the less then steady world he inhabited. There was no change for him, nothing had happened. He had gotten a new goal, new priorities, and acted on them. Nothing had changed, and yet Sam had been turned on his head, left scrabbling for a hand hold in this reversed universe. Sam was lost, for the first time in forever without his big brother. That man was no more.

He reached the desk and knocked on the window. “Hello? Anyone there?”

The cold was seeping through his coat and he huffed, regretting that as the fog turned black in his imagination. He shivered, from the cold or the vision, he wasn’t sure, and knocked on the window again.

“Hey! The, uh, the radiator’s broken. I need a new room, or for someone to fix it.” He paused. “I’ll go to a new motel if I have to, I’m not going to freeze.”

“Oh, you’re right about that, Sammy. Feels a little hot here, doesn’t it?”

The cold was gone. The goosebumps faded away and sweat beaded on his forehead. He dropped his hands from rubbing his freezing arms and snagged the gun from his back, clicking the safety off as he turned around to face the figure cloaked in black. A cliché. It was always black.

“Sammy.” The figure chided. “You should know that won’t do a damn thing.”

The voice held a quality that Sam had never heard come from his brother. It was lilting, teasing. Still, Sam felt the danger, the evil, rippling no so subtly under the surface and fought the urge to fire a shot. He took a breath and exhaled, but the lack of fog from his breath brought no relief. Tears very nearly threatened his vision, but he took another steady breath and focused.

“Dean.” His arm didn’t shake from supporting the gun, but he held no pride from that fact. He felt safest with his brother, and despite all his common sense, the voice he had held nearest and dearest to him from the moment he left Stanford, screaming and wailing and pleading for him to run, he felt safe. He felt safe. Safe. Safer then he had all fucking week.

Any trace of the cold was gone now, and the night pushed further upon him, an unsettling calm settling over the area, blanketing over the warm. Sam shivered again. He almost wished for the cold, for the fog, to return.

His brother stepped forward, towards Sam, and a nearby light caught his figure, illuminating the shadows and lines. He wore a  black, always black, leather jacket. It looked new, but not clean. It was well worn in a nice way, but Sam had never seen it before. Dean had added a dark and plain t-shirt, with black jeans, worn, but, like before, still nice. He had black work boots on as well. His brother had never worn that much black at once in his life.

Sam supposed being a demon changed a person’s fashion sense. All demons he knew preferred black as well.  _Matches their insides_ , he thought, thinking of his breath from earlier, turned pitch black in his mind’s eye.

“Why are you here?” Sam asked, still gripping his gun. It was useless. He already felt safe because somehow, someway, he knew Dean wouldn’t hurt him. He just _knew_.

Dean smirked, stepping closer yet again. He spread his hands. “What can I say?” He said, the smirk growing. “I got sentimental.”

“Not possible. Tell the truth.”

“Oh, so skeptical, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

It was the first, and only time, he had said that statement to his brother, his best friend, with any seriousness, and his breath caught in his throat. Oh, God.

“Touchy, alright.” He raised his hands into the classic non-threatening position, and somehow managed to make the action look insolent. “I’m here on official business.”

Sam missed his brother. The one who only said “official business” when impersonating a fed. The one who didn’t stand with that _smirk_ plastered on his face, his green eyes sharper then they ever had been.

Sam managed to grind out one short sentence. He didn’t trust himself to not let his voice break. “What. Do. You. Want.”

“I need you to take a message to the ever-righteous angel of Thursday. Consider yourself the messenger.” His eyes gleamed, the shitty light from the street lamp making the color sharp as a blade. “You should be lucky I follow the “don’t kill the messenger” campaign.”

Sam just stood there, a neutral expression on his face.

“Tell him we need to talk.”

“I disagree.”

Sam’s head was spinning, but he didn’t startle when Cas appeared next to him. He breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his gun. Cas’ blade gleamed in the light, and when Sam blinked, the First Blade was being held loosely in Dean’s hand. It may have been Sam’s imagination but the air seemed to get even warmer.

“Castiel.” Dean said. “How nice to see you again.” When the angel simply glared at him, the knight raised an eyebrow. “I told you, Cas, last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid.”

Sam could see Cas tighten even more with the mention of the past, a past filled with pain, mistakes, suffering.

Like now, Sam supposed.

Dean looked smug, like that was his plan all along. “Relax, Cas, I need a favor.”

“And why would I do something for you again?”

“Because.” Dean said. “I rule hell. And despite the little act you put up for Sammy here, heaven is in pretty shitty shape.” He stepped into Cas’ personal space, almost nose to nose with his enemy. “You need me on your side if you have a fuck’s chance of coming up on top."

There was a moment of silence in which Sam ran through all his encounters with Cas over the past few months. There weren’t many, so it made it difficult to find something… but maybe that was the point. Sam had barely seen Cas, and in the past years the angel had gotten better at visiting when he could. Sam had barely seen his brother’s best friend, and his own best friend if he was being honest, but he hadn’t even thought about it that closely.

Cas frowned, thinking for a moment, before he took a step back, sliding his blade back into place, out of sight. “What do you need.”

Dean’s smirk grew and the First Blade disappeared. "Smart move, angel.” He took a moment of victory before he started again. There. Right there. That was another thing that had changed. His brother was a no-nothing kind of guy, no time for bragging in serious confrontations. The king of hell? A completely different story, apparently. Sam added that to the list he was keeping in his head of their differences. He was seriously considering writing it down. The list was getting quite long, and it was the one thing keeping him sane. The one line between the past and the bitter now.

“We have a… let’s call it a mutual enemy.”

There was a moment of stifling silence, and Cas spoke into the dark. “Continue.” He rumbled.

“You heard of Talik?”

“No.” Cas answered slowly. “Who is he?”

“More like what.” Dean said, rolling his shoulders. “He’s the child of a Nephillim and a Cambion.”

Cas’ eyebrows jumped up and a genuine surprised expression graced his featured. “Really?”

Sam looked on in confusion as Dean responded. “Oh, yeah. But the human part? That’s long gone. Beaten out by Crowley the Dumbass.”

Now THAT was his brother, calling Crowley names, filling them in on a case. This was Dean, but his deceptively relaxed stance and the black wardrobe told a different story, slamming Sam forcefully back to reality as he asked his question. “I don’t get it.”

“Of course you don’t, Sammy, a little slow today are we?”

Sam clenched his jaw and turned to Cas. The angel’s sympathy flashed through his gaze before he responded to the question, Sam grateful the angel didn’t allow the barb to get to him either. “This Talik is the child of a half-angel and a half-demon. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to remove human heritage but with Crowley’s magic and skills it could be possible.”

“Oh, it is, Feathers. And I’ve got a shitload of dead minions to prove it. He escaped Hell, but don’t worry.” A cruel smile curved Dean's face, making a shiver travel up Sam’s spine. “I’ll punish the incompetent bottom feeders. By what I could tell, he’s making his way towards heaven, probably to cut through you the same way he did my ranks. He’s unstable, not in control. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde incarnate.”

“We will be prepared.”

“Oh, you’d better, _sweetheart_.” Dean snarled, and Sam still hadn’t gotten use to the constant use of cruel sounding pet names from the demon. “Because I need his head on a fucking pike. If you get him alive, turn him back over to Hell. If not, hand over the body.”

“No.”

Dean seemed like he expected this. “You turn him over, or I kill your angel.”

Suddenly, the situation seemed a lot less put together and Dean seemed a lot more dangerous.

Cas stiffened, his fist clenching. Sam could tell he was itching for his blade, but after a moment his hand relaxed. His back remained stiff as a board, his gaze piercing Dean’s. “All of my angels are accounted for.”

A smirk grew on the demon’s face and he laughed. His laugh used to fill a room, make Sam’s day, hell, sometimes his week. His laugh used to be infectious, filled with joy on the rare occasions a true one shone through. This was the same, but it was sharper. There was joy there, pure, undiluted joy, but the cause behind it made it seem dark, a deep, black humor entering Dean’s eyes.

“Oh, Feathers, you actually thought I meant a real angel. How cute.” He shook his head. “But no, _Clarence_ , I was talking about your other little angel.”

Cas’ eyes widened and he let out a slightly strangled gasp. The word whispered out, a small exhale. “Meg?”

“Got it in one. Meg’s very much alive and kicking, and she’s been very helpful. I didn’t like her in the past.” He grinned, cold and dispassionately. “Thought she was a real bitch. Which she is, don’t get me wrong, but now it’s an appealing trait for a second in command.” He paused, the first blade in his hand again. He twirled it as he spoke again. “But demons can be replaced."

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. He could only imagine what Cas was feeling. “What makes you think we care?” Sam spoke up, keeping his voice distant and uninterested sounding. His head was pounding.

“Oh, it’s not you little brother. Last time I checked, you’d watch that bitch burn without sparing a glass of water. It’s you.” Dean whispered, his gaze snapping to Cas. The archangel stood, steady, silent, still, as Dean took a step so they were, yet again, nose to nose. “How unfocused your eyes are. The twitching of your fingers. Slightly elevated breathing. Fast pulse. Aching deep in your soul.” His mouth quirked to the side. “You’re becoming more human by the second, Cas.”

“Shut up.” Castiel breathed out.

“Agree to my terms.” Dean said. “Return him to Hell, alive or dead, Cas, or I find a new second in command.”

And he was gone.

—

“Cas.” Sam asked two days later as they prepared to confront Talik, who had been tracked to a town in California. “Do you love her?”

“Meg?”

At Sam’s nod, the angel frowned. “I… I don’t know. I mean, I did.” He smiled slightly. It was bitter, cold, sad. “I know I did. But now.” He shook his head. “So much has changed.

“Yeah.” Sam echoed quietly. “It has.”

—

It took them three hours to finally find Talik, and he was sitting in an empty bar. There were no dead bodies, no live ones, no anything. It was silent. Crushingly so, but Sam and Cas entered just the same.

“Talik?”

The man looked over, his sharp red eyes finding them as they entered. He looked surprisingly gentle.

“An angel and a human.” He murmured. “I would have bet on that demon finding me first.”

The man, or whatever he was, had brown hair and a soft jaw, but Sam couldn’t see more through the dark that permeated the bar.

Sam took a step forward, remembering Dean’s comment about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Split personality, and he would bet his life that this was the angelic side. He _was_ betting his life, actually. It didn’t bother him as much as it had a year ago.

“It’s nice to meet you.” The hunter said. “I’m Sam. This is Cas.”

Somehow, he felt the informal way was the best way to go. He took another step.

“Sam.” Cas warned, and he could hear the slight movement that meant Cas had pulled out his angel blade. Sam tightened his jaw. He was so done with death, with violence. It felt like he was too tired to move, to think, to fight. He just wanted to stop, that was what he wanted practically his whole life. From high school to college. From Jess’ death, to the yellow eyed demon. He had wanted to stop, but then he hadn’t. He wanted to keep fighting with his brother. The universe kept throwing things at them, though. Lilith, the angels, the devil, his soul, leviathan, Crowley. But he had his brother through all of that. And when everything was normal, when they were two brothers, fighting the good fight, he loved it. He never wanted to stop or give up. But now…

He just wanted to stop.

“Your friend is right. I’m dangerous.” Talik sighed and bowed his head towards the marble of the bar. There wasn’t a single drop of alcohol in sight, and for a man sitting at an empty bar in the dead of night, Talik’s eyes held no tears. It was odd. He didn’t lift his head as he addressed them next. “Are you here to kill me? Save me? Or take me back to Dean Winchester?”

“I’m sorry.” Sam whispered.

“I am sure you are."

The man’s lack of reaction was unnerving.

“We have to.” Cas murmured. “We have no choice.”

The man said nothing, and Sam stepped forward and sat down on the tool next to him. Talik didn’t react with surprise, only glancing over at the hunter with curiosity. “Dragging it out? Believe me, this life is enough punishment.”

Sam could sympathize, part good part evil, both fighting for the lead. “No.” He said. “No, but you deserve a last drink before we take you back.”

“How generous.”

Sam had nothing to say to that. So he sat, and Talik sat, and Cas sat. And when the demon/angel hybrid finally snapped back to the part of his soul that matched the dark of the bar, Sam didn’t hesitate in sliding the demon knife through his heart. It didn’t do anything, and the _thing_ sneered at him, but an archangel blade through the back did the trick. The sneer melted away and the red eyes dimmed, and Sam sighed, slinging the body over his shoulder before it could fall.

“Let’s go save Meg.” Sam murmured.

Cas nodded, and they left the empty bar in peace.

At least one place deserved peace.

—

Cas brought the body personally to Dean in Hell. Sam stayed in the bunker.

He wanted to go. He wanted to see his brother, no matter how twisted this version had become. It was still Dean deep, deep down beneath the mark, the smirk, and the pitch black smoke. But Cas held him back, going on his own before Sam could even react. It wasn’t as if Sam could follow him and if he tried, where would he go? He would have to find a door to Hell, someone to let him in, and a way to find his way to Castiel before a demon got the better of him. Wasn’t worth the risk. So he sat.

It was agonizing.

It took one hour, and Cas returned with no body and a box. His eyes were tired, so tired, and he set the small package in front of Sam.

“From him.” The archangel said, and he didn’t need to explain who the ‘him’ was. “Meg also sends her regards.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask for details, but the angel was already gone in a rush of wind. He sighed and looked down at the box. It was brown, cardboard, and had a small slip of paper attached. He tugged the note off and held it gingerly. He ignored his shaking hands and read the words.

_Sammy,_

_Thought you might want this._

The hunter felt a small tear slip through his defenses and ignored it, pulling the box towards him. It only took a few short tugs to open the box, and Sam felt his breath catch. Inside lay their mom’s silver ring that Dean had worn for years and, when it wasn’t on his finger, it was always on his person. Sam slipped it on his own finger.

He didn’t sleep that night, the possibilities of what the gift meant swirling through his head.

—

Two days later, he managed to get Cas to explain what happened, and why he was so upset. Why he had left

A demon had attacked him in the throne room.

That was commonplace, and was expected in Hell, but the demon had touched him. Cas had, of course, shoved it away and moved to kill it, but the demon had been pulled away. Not by Meg or another angel, but by Dean.

Dean had saved him, and declared to the court that anyone who was stupid enough touch the archangel would be skinned alive and dunked in holy water before being fed to hellhounds as a chew toy.

Nobody went near Cas after that.

Sam for one wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt. Nobody had gone after them, nobody had tried to kill either of them. The demons, before the treaty, had been ordered to go after every hunter and angel, but not them, and Sam was starting to see that was on purpose. The King of Hell’s angel and brother were off limits.

That stung more then a kill order could have.

Sam was safe from demons for the first time in his life, and he should have been happy or relieved. He wanted to stop, after all, stop fighting, but not like this. He was safe, and it was wrong. All wrong. Anger would have been easier to deal with. He wanted Dean to try and kill him, come after him. Now the lines were blurred. True, they had always been that way with the way the Winchesters decided to live, and Dean had dealt with blurred lines with Sam multiple times in the past, but Sam had never encountered that problem with his only family. Dean dealt with the demon blood, the soullessness, everything. Dean had always just been a straight line to Sam, perfect, never wavering. There was never any gray area when it came to his big brother. Not even when he turned into a demon, but now… everything shifted.

Sam was having a hard enough time handling the change. His brother, the one who read old magazines to him as a kid, who came to his classroom on parent day, who got him new clothes even when they had no money, who ruffled his hair until Sam finally got taller then him (and even then he still did it when he could), who teased him about his first crush, who protected him on hunts to no end, who helped him get a suit for prom night and managed to slip condoms in every pocket he could without Sam noticing, who drove him to the bus station when he left for Stanford even with tears in his eyes, who sat on the hood of the Impala with him and watched the stars, who saved him from himself, who gave everything to give him his soul back, who protected him from the trials, who forgave Sam no matter the cost. His brother, now reduced to nothing. Every connection he had to Sam snapped, cut away by the twisted soul that now resided in the body of his big brother. Dean remembered, but the memories might as well have been stripped away.

Sam had to deal with that. He had to come to terms with being separated from his brother for practically the first time in a decade, cold turkey. He did not have the capacity to deal with the blurred lines that now haunted him. Dean wasn’t on their side, but he wasn’t against it. He protected them while threatening them. Some would call him a hypocrite, Sam would just call him a strategic genius. His brother had always had a knack for strategy. When he put his mind to it he could mess with your thoughts like no other, twist them, confuse you, turn you against yourself. And Sam knew. In hell, the trauma from the memories had faded, but the details themselves remained. Lucifer had told him all about it, showed him his brother jumping off that rack to torture countless souls. His brother had a gift. Not just with a knife, but with his words. 

_Just a knife does nothing_ , and Sam so wished he could get the commentary of Lucifer out of his head sometimes. _A knife is metal. A tool. Anyone can use it, but anyone can resist it as well, Sammy boy. Words break the mind, remember. Using tools is boring, torture is anything but, roomie._

And Dean had relished in that lesson, Lucifer had showing that to him in high def, and Sam hadn’t dared ever tell Dean that he knew any of this. Dean had no idea Sam knew the skill he had developed with mental manipulation, but Sam couldn’t use that to his advantage because it was working. The fucking mind games were working, and dammit they would work best on Sam, after all he was the person Dean knew better then anyone in the universe.

So Sam wasn’t sure. Sam wasn’t sure if Dean was really against them, neutral, or just messing with them. He didn’t know, and that was where the gray area came into play.

_Torture comes in many forms,_ Lucifer had sing-singed to him, _and so many ignorant mortals think it’s in the least obvious way, but they’re dead wrong, Sam. It is always right in front of you. The best torture isn’t sneaky. It’s always there, in plain sight. And if you think it’s gone, well, roomie, then it’s just waiting for you to lay down and let it fuck you in the ass._


	3. Featherless Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange request sets Sam and Cas back on their heels, and makes Dean's intentions even less clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italics are things Lucifer said to Sam, just in case there was any confusion.

Sam saw Meg in an unofficial capacity a week later. He had spent the majority of that time locked in his room, paging through the four pictures Dean had kept in his room and staring at their mother’s silver ring. Cas hadn’t talked to Sam since he had come clean about the throne room incident, but Sam could hear him around the bunker sometimes. Eventually, Sam knew his thoughts would eat him alive. It was just the Winchester way, so Sam did what Sam always did, went to work. He got up, showered, toweled his hair, changed, and went searching for information like any good hunter would. He knew Dean was somewhere on Earth, he just didn’t know where. So he interviewed, begged, tricked, and scared what he needed to know out of demons, angels, monsters, and hunters, but nothing worked. And he got nothing. No new information, none he could use to find his brother. _Don’t lay down and die, Sammy, that takes all the fun out of it._

Sam, despite not having the traumatic visions and emotions to go with hell, sometimes wished the words would slip right out too. _True torture is in the mind, and it is goes on and on and on_ , Lucifer had whispered one day, and while Sam hadn’t believed him them, he felt almost like a teenager figuring out that their parent had been right all along. He nearly puked with that revelation.

Sam didn’t give up. But he did take a break. And that’s how he found himself in the back of the smokiest bar he could find, not a drink in sight. Dean would have fucking loved it, besides the alcohol ban Sam was placing on himself.

“Lookin lonely there, Sasquatch. Long time no see, I almost forgot the look of your luscious locks of hair.”

Sam barely reacted to the words, briefly remaining himself of Talik, unresponsive at that bar what seemed like ages ago now. It didn’t bug him as much as it should have.

“Meg.”

“Sam.” She slid into the other side of the booth. “You’ve sure been busy.”

He had been busy, and Meg’s hair was brown again, her meat suit the same as he had last saw her. It was strangely reassuring. One thing stayed the same.

“I could say the same for you, Meg.” He murmured. He looked her in the eyes. She looked alive, more so then she had ever seemed. “Second in command for hell. Planning my brother’s untimely demise?”

She sighed. “Suspicious much? He’s my best chance to keep rule of hell, and I have more then enough say as it is. I gotta say, I’m liking Dean 2.0.” She shot him dry glance. “He’s charming.”

“Not the word I would use. He hates you.”

“Past tense, Sam.” Meg shrugged. “What can I say? Now that the whole demon roadblock is out of the way, we get along famously. Better then Rachel and Monica.”

Sam didn’t have the energy to make fun of her Friends reference. Because _sense of humor’s the first thing to go, Sam. No more jokes and fun-time, life goes downhill faster then your precious brother after his little stint in the pit._

Sam needed to stay strong. He knew that, but it was hard to gather the energy.

“Are you saying you’ve become BFFs with my brother?"

The demon shrugged. “Don’t be a pussy. I’m not Crowley, I don’t have a BFF.” She sounded disgusted at the prospect. “He’s fucking knight of hell, and I’m not an idiot. And honestly,” She shrugged. “I’m kinda partial to the guy. Get past the douchebag shell, he’s not half bad.”

Sam was sure he should have called Cas already. The angel could help, and he probably wanted to talk to Meg. Sam didn’t reach for his cell. He was okay on his own. He was fine, and Sam had to get used to the feeling. That profound bond the angle had with Dean apparently didn’t extend to both of the Winchester brothers.

Simple and blunt is the best way to talk to a demon. That rule had practically been beaten into him over the years. “What do you want, Meg."

“We need you to stop poking your little hunter nose in where it doesn’t belong.” She said, her eyes briefly flashing black. “Simple enough for you to grasp?”

Sam had to give her credit, she didn’t beat around the bush.

_Get straight to it, Sammy, too much foreplay just ruins the expectations. Don’t want to disappoint, now do we?_

“Not going to happen.” Sam spoke over the echoing of words in his head. He was half sure he was insane, but it was better then fully sure like three years ago, he supposed.

Meg did not react the way he expected her too. He expected insults, threats, anger, not a slip of paper. Sam frowned as she set the envelope in the center of the table, no writing or markings to speak of on the visible side of it.

“Before you ask, Sasquatch, that’s a demand. You didn’t fulfill this demand, so you get another. You don’t carry this out, we kill that lovely little unicorn you had, Amelia.” She leaned forward. "Oh, and no take-backs, big bird. These orders stick, no matter if you decide to stop poking around or not now.” She smirked. "I hope you have bundles of fun with your orders."

And she was gone. Sam reached out and slipped the envelope in his inside jacket pocket, swallowing. Meg had changed, despite his earlier perception of her. Before, she had sacrificed herself for Cas. For them. He had told her about Amelia, and she had been open. She hadn’t been like a demon at all. She had been… Meg. Now, she was cruel. Her sarcasm was tinted with sharpness. Evil.

Sam didn’t want to know what had happened to her after Crowley had killed her.

_Mystery, roomie, is the key to a relationship. After all, its what makes hell tick._

\--

When Sam got back to the bunker, it took Cas all of five seconds to figure out he had seen Meg. It took another minute to explain what happened.

“You said new orders.” Cas frowned. ”What are they?”

Sam yanked the envelope from his coat none too carefully. He ripped open the seal, the edge now jagged with the imprecision of his fingers. Dean would have used a knife, and that would have been the smart thing to do, but right now, Sam wasn’t sure a knife was the best idea. Dean’s strengths were now his weaknesses. Even knives, no matter how crazy that sounded. He took a few breaths, unfolding the page. In the center was a handwritten phrase in Dean’s scrawling script.

Forty-two archangel feathers, plucked from the root.

Sam blinked. Sam expected murder, having to kill another hunter, maybe an angel. Never something so… mundane.

“What?”

“Forty-two archangel fathers, plucked from the root.” Sam frowned at Cas. “You got some of those laying around?”

“Yes.”

For some reason, the word seemed foreboding. But these days, every word seemed foreboding to Sam. Nothing was right. Sam just waited for Cas to elaborate, and the angel continued as expected. His voice was monotone.

“Gabriel is dead. Raphael is dead. Lucifer is in the cage. Michael is in the cage.” He sighed. “I am the only archangel left.”

“So?”

“So the only way you can get this is from my wings.” Cas’ eyes dropped to the ground. He seemed almost as defeated as Sam felt. “Did you know, plucking an angel’s feathers is a method of torture?”

Sam felt his breathing pick up.

“And,” Cas continued. “In biblical literature, the number forty-two is a sign of the anti-christ.”

“Cas-“

“No.” He murmured. “No more people will die because of this. We need to equalize the control of heaven and hell. At any cost. And right now, that means giving up these feathers before we make any move.”

“No, wait, I can negotiate with Meg, make her-“

“Sam.” Cas said quietly. “Look at me.”

The younger Winchester didn’t look up from the floor. It didn’t feel right, for torture to envelop itself in Sam’s life as the words of Lucifer imbedded themselves deeper and deeper inside his mind.

“Sam.”

The only reason that Sam looked up was that he felt a breeze, and when his gaze brought itself up, his breath caught in his throat.

Castiel’s wings were not one single color. They were darker, but not black, blue, green, nothing. Sam couldn’t see, couldn’t tell, could’t comprehend the color, but it was beautiful just the same. The wings spread through the room, twitching as they seemed to stretch towards the walls on their own accord. Sam had no words for something so incredible in a time where such a thing had no right to exist.

“No.” Sam murmured, but even he could hear the lack of conviction in his own voice.

“Get it over with quickly, Sam. Grasp each individual feather from the base, use your strength. You’ll need it.”Cas’ screams shattered every piece of glass, ceramic, and plastic in the bunker.

_Never forget torture, Sammy, keep it in there for my personal pleasure._

Those screams were something Sam would never forget. Not for Lucifer, or Dean, Cas, or even himself. He kept them because he could. Everything else may have changed, but a Winchester holding on- that would never change.

But, despite that comfort, those screams echoed in the bunker, and none of it seemed worth it. Not holding on, not the torture, nothing. Cas had suffered for nothing, Sam was bargaining for nothing. This wasn't improving his situation, he wasn’t helping get Dean back at all. Sam had nothing more then fourty-two angel feathers, collected at a higher cost then it was worth.

Having nothing was strangely relieving in that twisted, dark moment.

Sam slept like a baby that night, for the first time in almost a year.

\--

Sam told Cas he was going to deliver the feathers himself. All it took was a phone call, a simple phone call. Meg was the one who picked up hell’s resident line.

“Got somethin for me, Sammy?”

Sam’s lungs felt crushed in his chest, a feeling that he had actually experienced at one point in time, so he would know. The familiar teasing cadence of her voice washed over him, flooding his sight with memories long since buried, memories that smashed and clawed their way desperately to the surface like a man buried alive. _A fiddle of gold against your soul says I’m better then youuu._ He rubbed his chest absently, finding his way blindly to a chair.

“Yes.” He said, keeping his eyes shut, darkened shapes dancing mockingly behind his eyes, the figures morphing into twisted souls. Sam snapped his eyes open, fixating on the puddle of bourbon where the intricate glass liquor bottle used to delicately sit. “We also need to review the terms of our truce with Dean.”

He heard a light chuckle over the line. “No need, Samuel.” The full version of his name twisting off her tongue as a permanent bullying figure at the end of her sentences. “After this matter is closed, no more threats on your loved ones.” Meg paused, and Sam could feel her smug smirk from between realms. “Or, loved one. Aren’t that many of ‘em left, are there Sam?”

Meg had never been this cruel when she was loved Castiel. It confused Sam at first how one person could have been altered so much after he had stumbled back to the bunker that night, reeking of smoke and terror. Of course, her motivations had always been fairly straightforward. Find a cause, stick to it. _As in, a reason to get up in the morning._ She had found a new cause, apparently, and she was true to her word.

Sam felt the pull of simply walking away wash over him, like an old friend greeting him after many years of absence. He set his hand on the table, the telltale _clink_ of his mother’s ring ringing eerily through the silent room.

“I will only give these feathers to Dean.”

“No need.” She said. “Dean would like me to inform you, Sammy, that those feathers can be used in many powerful spells. You can find these spells in the Men of Letters bunker. They also work very well as Christmas ornaments. Use them wisely.”

The dial tone buzzed ominously in his ear, and he dropped his phone from his hand. Sam heard the screen shatter on the polished hardwood floor. He didn’t care. The bunker remained in silence as he stood up and gently scooped the bag of feathers into his hand. They looked almost as if they were glowing, pulsing of their own accord, an act that was easily seen in the lowered lighting of the main area. Same padded to his bedroom and slipped them quietly into the locked bottom drawer of his nightstand. A moment later, he was by Cas’ side, the angel laying in bed, his eyes fluttering with exhaustion, one that he had too often seen echoed in Dean’s eyes in the past. It was all in the past now.

“Did you-“ Castiel’s voice was hoarse. Sam felt tears swimming closer to the brims of his eyes, his vision blurring slightly. “Did you deliver them?”

Sam was now able to lie with a smoothness that almost startled him, even after all these years. “Yes, Meg took them.” The pure insanity that he was was lying to an angel of God filled Sam with a feeling of contrite panic that really, after all he had been through, should have dissipated years ago.

“Good.” The angel murmured, and he looked so relived that a tear made it past Sam’s hard fought defenses, sliding coldly down his cheek. The younger Winchester didn’t bother to wipe it off, simply standing up and walking out. It was hours later that he still found himself sitting with his back against the wall. He almost imagined he could feel the heat those angelic miracles were generating from the inside of his jacket pocket, seeping through his being slowly and surely, but not nearly enough.

Sam carried that particular lie about the feathers with him for as long as he could, and the feathers in a pocket over his heart as a constant reminder.

tbc


	4. The Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little chapter before the real action starts.

Cain was dead.

Sam had found out, not through the grapevine, but directly from the source. Dean couldn’t get into the bunker, not after Sam warded the shit out of it, but the younger Winchester didn’t bother carrying hex bags while out and about, figuring it was a moot point after his admittedly shaky agreement with Dean and Meg.

Sam had started taking regular hunts again, something he hadn’t done in months, and it was showing. His injuries were stacking up at an alarming rate. Broken arm, deep slashes across his chest, shattered nose, cracked ribs, black eyes, the damage didn’t stop. Sam had been out of the game for too long, or that’s what he told himself. The only other option, one that, with the evidence at hand, was looking much more likely by the minute, was an absence. Sam had hunted his entire life with Dean. From birth to 18, from 22 to 31. His entire hunting career had been with Dean watching his back, and Sam felt lost. It wasn’t just being out of practice, what Sam told himself as he lay awake at night in pain, it was being without his big brother. He expected someone to be there guarding him, helping him. There was no one, a fact that Sam was determined to begin resolutely ignoring.

So he had been on a hunt, or more accurately, at a nearby bar after finishing a hunt. It had been easy, one vengeful spirit, but Sam still came away withe a severely bruised torso. Even sitting in a small, smokey booth in the back of the bar hurt, but after a month of these regular hunts Sam was getting used to constantly being in some kind of pain. And pain, as everyone knows, can be easily dealt with using alcohol, hence the bar.

Sam hadn’t ordered much, a glass of whisky, and he swirled it absently in his glass while he sat there, wondering if the future could be seen in the bottom of a whisky glass. Supposedly people used tea cups, so was whisky so far a stretch?

“You must be pretty drunk to be thinking like that, Sammy.”

The hunter swallowed, the weight on his chest settling uncomfortably as he shifted to look at the new figure across from him.

“Just tired.”

Dean laughed, tugging on his red shirt. Apparently he had decided to add a splash of color to his new all black wardrobe. The fact that the color was the same as blood didn’t escape Sam’s thoughts. He didn’t count the change an improvement.

“We were tired a lot, weren’t we?” The demon shook his head. “It was pathetic, really, now that I look back on it. I mean, hell, we could have lightened up just a bit, dontcha think Sam?”

“What do you want? I’m not in the mood.”

“A man can’t catch up with his brother now? Sammy, I’m shocked.”

“You’re not a man.”

“And you’re in no position to walk away from this.” Dean practically snarled, his teeth flashing in the dim light of the bar before it turned into a light smirk. "I come bearing information.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Cain is dead.”

The hunter sighed, the crappy music vibrating under his hands. It wasn’t even that loud, but Sam could feel it, the pulses getting stronger as his grip tightened on the table. He was pretty sure his knuckles were white.

 _Don’t show weakness, Sam, that’s what lets them in_. Lucifer grinned savagely. _What lets me in._

Sam grit his teeth and maintained his hold. “Did you kill him?”

The demon grinned, memory of Lucifer’s grin flashing into place before Sam’s eyes. “Who else?” Dean’s eyes briefly flashed black. Or maybe it was Sam’s hyperactive mind, God knew his brain loved terrorizing itself. "Thought you’d want to know.”

He nodded, using his free hand to push a strand of hair behind his ear. He stared into his whisky, the stench wafting up to him and making his eyes faintly sting.

When Sam looked up a moment later, Dean was gone.

Cain was gone too. Permanently.

For some reason, that didn’t bring as much relief as it should have. A mass murdering knight of hell was dead, but Sam only felt dread. Nothing else could kill his brother now. Not that Sam wanted Dean dead, but now his brother was unstoppable. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, but the immovable object just happens to have been pulverized by the unstoppable force?

The consequences wouldn’t be immediate, Sam knew that, but a major player had been lost, brutally stabbed off the game board. That would come to bite them in the ass later, Sam was sure of it, and he still wasn’t sure what game they were playing in the first place. The feathers, the check ins, the occasional information exchange, all of it adding up to something Sam didn’t know, if it even was adding up to anything. This could just be it. Dean messing with his head, Sam learning to live with a demon for a brother. Maybe that was the game.

Either way, Sam was losing. Heaven was losing too, if they were even playing.

But Sam couldn’t do anything about it right now. He could, however, sit in a booth at a crappy bar and think about the aura of danger Dean had given off, stronger then last time, and how truly, royally fucked Sam Winchester was. A sudden chill swept over him, and Sam set his glass down to rub at his arms, thinking that maybe this cold had nothing to do with the temperature in the bar.

The devil’s words echoed ominously in his ears over the cacophony of the bar. _Most people think I burn hot. It’s actually quite the opposite._

Sam sighed and dropped a twenty on the table, the cold refusing to recede even as he stepped into the warm night air.


End file.
